


The summons (or: King Bard bows down)

by pencilwood



Series: An Obedient King [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cock Worship, Dom/sub, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Facials, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Insults, Light Cock & Ball Torture, M/M, Masochism, Mindfuck, Obedience, Oral Sex, Orders, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Predator/Prey, Rough Oral Sex, S&M, Sadism, Semi-Public Sex, Situational Humiliation, Submission, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28849200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pencilwood/pseuds/pencilwood
Summary: “Sit,” the Elvenking finally ordered, and his tone was so commanding that Bard, despite his confusion—or perhaps because of it—dropped and sat on the ground.Silence.Then: “I was speaking,” the Elf told him with a quirk to his lips, “to the dog.”
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Series: An Obedient King [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2115444
Comments: 1
Kudos: 55





	The summons (or: King Bard bows down)

**Author's Note:**

> Mean Thranduil is hot Thranduil, what can I say?

The newly (and, as he would tell it, reluctantly) declared King of Dale was huddled in his largest coat poring over his fourth dry ledger of the night when a sly-eyed elf-maid floated in and announced he’d be following her. Something-something “the Elvenking will have your audience,” she’d said.

Bard was not loathe to abandon his reading, but he still sighed to himself as she spirited herself back out of his tent. Everyone, as of late, seemed to need to speak to him.

It was no better that it was a king this time— _another_ king, he had to remind himself with a rueful smile. Perhaps worse. He tried valiantly to make himself presentable: smoothed his tunic, retied the belt, and brushed his fingers through his hair. He did not feel very kingly. And even if he had, Thranduil was… Well, Bard was not entirely comfortable around the Mirkwood’s Elves and all their etherealness, least of all that of their enigmatic ruler.

No better reminder of that was than when he stepped into the chill outside and found Elves milling about in the dark of the night as if it were a summer’s day. Bard was grateful, yes, for their allyship—immensely—but surrounded by such unflinching beauty, it was embarrassing to even shiver in the cold.

He resisted the urge to blow into his hands as he approached the tent he needed, marked by guards flanking the entrance. They resembled statues, not a long, silken hair out of place.

With a shake of his head, Bard strode inside.

Thranduil’s tent looked as a king’s should. (That is, nothing like Bard’s cobbled-together mess of what could be salvaged from the house.) An ornate golden rug covered the ground, a magnificent desk stood imposing on the opposite end, and behind it was the Elvenking writing something in a controlled, looping script. His very posture was authoritative. Bard often felt out of his depth nowadays; this was one such moment.

“You called for me?” Bard began, and he silently cursed the hesitation audible in his tone.

With no indication he’d heard the Man speak, Thranduil kept writing.

Or, in fact, any indication that he knew the man was there at all. Bard watched. Hadn’t the elf-maid directed him here? Was he mistaken? Had—

“ _Sit_ ,” the Elvenking finally ordered, and his tone was so commanding that Bard, despite his confusion—or perhaps because of it—dropped and sat on the ground.

Silence.

Then: “I was speaking,” the Elf told him with a quirk to his lips, “to the dog.”

That was when Bard noticed the shepherd-dog patiently sat by Thranduil’s feet. He’d never seen one around Elves before—it was surely of Lake-town’s population. And as his mind caught up, Bard’s cheeks heated like his head was on fire. “Ah,” he said eloquently, and a slender pointed finger bid it from the tent. “I see.”

As Bard coughed and stood, looking to the designs in the rug and back, Thranduil returned to his writing with a ghost of a smirk.

“I was curious what sort of king you’d be, Master Bowman; it seems I have my answer.”

Bard could not help his curiosity despite his mortification. The Dwarf-king and the Master combined had likely told him much worse; he had been called simple before. He would handle it like a diplomat, no matter his… lack of enthusiasm for the role. “And—and that is?”

What came next, he could not have predicted. The Elvenking’s white-blue eyes flicked up to meet his, and the look Bard was fixed with could only be described as predatory. “An _obedient_ one.”

Oh.

Bard felt suddenly like a fish held above water, and Thranduil the hawk gripping him in his talons. His mouth opened and closed, and he could not fool himself into thinking his face had not turned a brilliant, telling red.

“You don’t deny it,” the Elf said smoothly.

He couldn’t. “I…”

The Elvenking leaned back and brought one ankle up to rest on his knee. He spoke leisurely, with no urgency—aware, Bard might have thought were he not floundering, that he had the Man snared. “This means you’ll do as I ask?”

 _I’m not sure I like the implication here,_ he wanted desperately to say. Again, the diplomat won over. “Within reason,” he answered quietly. “You’ve done much to aid us.”

“Hm,” Thranduil said, and it was an approving little sound. Bard found he wanted to hear it again. Based on the way the Elf’s eyes narrowed as he languidly stood, hair moving like flax in wind, Bard guessed it had shown on his face. “Then kneel.”

Before he could much question himself, Bard knelt and bowed his head. Blood was rushing in his ears and to elsewhere.

The approving hum came again. Bard found his trousers slowly growing uncomfortable. The Elvenking’s voice was deep and rich and entrancing when he next spoke: “Did you know they say a king should never beg?”

Bard’s brain seemed to scramble as slow footsteps heralded the Elf’s approach. “Shouldn’t he?” fell from his mouth, and for all his fear he already sounded breathless.

“A clever one would not. But I am talking about you. _This_ king—” Thranduil tipped Bard’s chin up from the ground with the toe of his shoe as if to punctuate, “—should beg _pitifully_.”

Bard swallowed hard at the same moment a shiver traveled down his spine. The eagle’s talons ever tightened, and he could not much think let alone consider why he was so affected by insult. At the shoe’s prodding, he straightened his back enough to look up and meet expectant eyes.

“Please, your highness,” he started, and the Elf actually laughed; deep, from his chest.

“The title is welcome.” The mirth disappeared as quickly as it came. “But I should have elaborated; Men are predictably dull. You will beg in a way that is _pitiable_. You will not beg _badly_.” The foot slid down to Bard’s hardening manhood and—oh. The pressure there, the threat of a crush—Bard’s entire body jerked with the pain and alarm of it, but something else, as well. The look in Thranduil’s eyes was pure mocking amusement, though his voice and expression remained impassive, uninterested. “Don’t worry. Pleading becomes natural at a certain point. You will learn.”

Bard nodded mutely.

“Though,” the Elf continued, scoffing and digging his heel down just a touch harder, “I did hope you’d be capable of fulfilling _some_ manner of command correctly. What use are you to me with no sense?”

Bard found he could not answer. The sole of Thranduil’s shoe grinding slowly into his dick was exquisite torture. The most he could manage was another nod as he closed his eyes.

The foot stopped, and Bard almost whined for the stillness; he assumed that was what Thranduil had meant by pleading becoming natural. Above him, the Elf spoke again, tone turned icy:

“You seem to have misinterpreted the situation, Bowman.”

Bard’s head snapped up. Despite the cold fear in his chest—what had he done wrong?—his erection would not flag. If anything, though he would not admit it, the bulge in his trousers only grew with Thranduil’s sternness.

“ _You aren’t meant to enjoy this,_ ” the Elf hissed. “Get up.”

That did nothing to stem the flow of Bard’s blood steadily downwards. With his lust-addled brain Bard blinked, confused as to how he should get up with a foot pressed firmly between his legs as it was, and for a moment felt just as dull as Thranduil had said he was. He felt his cheeks burning as he finally backed up just enough to stand, very aware of the tent in his trousers and the inches separating him from the tall, golden figure of the Elvenking.

Thranduil stared cooly down at him through blond eyelashes. “On your knees.”

Back down for the—was it the fourth time? Bard’s blush wouldn’t abate. Each movement shifted his aching dick, and he supposed that was the point. He stilled a moment, confused once again—Thranduil was still staring. _The point,_ he thought fuzzily. _He wants you thrown off._

“Come here,” the Elf snapped, though again there was no heat to it—only cold derision which for some reason continued to dry Bard’s mouth. “You’re no better than the dog. Perhaps duller.”

Bard swallowed and shuffled closer to kneel at the Elf’s feet. When he raised his head, he was met with what he expected: the hard sex of the Elvenking. Another swallow; Bard was perhaps far too excited for this. He opened his mouth to take the head and let out a strangled gasp as pain jolted at the back of his head—it took him a startled moment to piece together the events, distracted as he was—Thranduil had balled his fist in Bard’s hair at the base of his neck suddenly and _yanked_ , and the Elf’s grip—!

And yet his trousers grew ever tighter.

“Honestly, it’s embarrassing how eager you are,” Thranduil said, and Bard felt a pit in his stomach that was not quite shame. Or at least not _only_ shame. In his trousers, his dick wept. “You will pleasure me,” and this he said with great ridicule, “ _King_ Bard, and afterwards you will leave this tent with a ‘thank you.’ And you will remember evermore just who is in charge.”

Once again, he could only nod. How much of his silence was for dazed speechlessness and how much was for meekness, Bard couldn’t be sure even himself.

The Elf released his hair.

Bard stared. Thranduil’s eyes were dark with self-contented arousal despite his cool exterior.

“I’m waiting.”

Being amusing, it seemed, lent Bard an ounce of leeway. Another mute nod—this time with his red face burning further. He wrapped his hands around the Elf’s length and took the end into his mouth before he could embarrass himself again.

Hands came to grasp his head and Bard flinched; instead of gripping his hair, however, the long, slim fingers curled slowly to scrape fingernails over his scalp. The resulting hard, pleasant shudder sent Bard jerking forward and swallowing more of the Elf involuntarily—he gagged and at the same time felt his manhood jump as if shocked. With tears stinging his eyes, Bard began to bob his head, fiercely ignoring the undeniable pulsing he felt. Instead he focused, sucking in earnest and tasting salt and heady musk. The hands remained but did not guide him.

So Bard was left to his task, movements nearly drunken with his mind made pliant with arousal. In broad, open-mouthed strokes, he ran his tongue along the underside of the Elf’s length and all around before taking the whole of it back into his mouth. It was easy to fall into a rhythm—to become yielding to the Elvenking’s reigning influence. Bard found himself shuddering just from the weight of his shaft on his tongue when a sudden jerk of the Elf’s hips filled his throat entirely, and the Man only had time to moan into a gag before a shred of rationality left in himself pulled him back to avoid choking. With his first gasp of air came a stripe of release over his face, and then multiple more. Bard caught his breath, body trembling, as liquid warmth creeped down to his lips.

Only a light sheen of sweat and a heaviness to the breath betrayed the Elvenking’s state. Foggily, Bard thought he looked carved from marble.

Even in his stupor, Bard remembered this time. “Thank you,” he said, or rather rasped with the soreness in his throat, and the approving glint in Thranduil’s half-lidded eyes was enough to make his hips twitch for want of a reward. Bard wet his lips on instinct and tasted salt.

Every senseless inch of him wanted to beg and see what happened.

Instead, he stood shakily, bowed his head to the Elvenking, and exited the tent, pausing only to wipe his face and fix his trousers to be somewhat subtler.

As Bard walked in the cold back to his tent, body hot and beating all over with unsettled blood, he struggled not to think of the guards watching him go, of Elf eyes and the come left sticking in his mustache, and of how their tents muffled no sound.

**Author's Note:**

> **I hope you enjoyed!! Leave a comment if you did and I will cry of happiness.**
> 
> **Any requests for the next installment?** I love embarrassing Bard. I don't know why, but it's just... *chef's kiss*.


End file.
